


I Can't Cope

by Writer_Jpg



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Armitage Hux Dies, Everyone but Hux is mentioned, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self-Harm, everyone is sad, no happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 00:35:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_Jpg/pseuds/Writer_Jpg
Summary: Armitage Hux can't cope.





	I Can't Cope

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while in a pretty bad state of mind a few days ago. Sorry it got really dark. Was a bit of a coping mechanism.

Starkiller was gone.

  
His life’s work was gone.

  
Everything he had ever worked for was gone.

  
Yet, he wasn’t gone.

  
He was still there, in the center of his room, burnt coat and stained, soaked uniform hanging on his body. Traces of snow had given way to puddles beneath his muddied boots and damp spots that chaffed his skin. His hair was ruffled. Standing up and out in ways that it shouldn’t have. His skin was colorless. Dead. Like Starkiller. Like most of his Troopers. Like officers he had worked with for years.

  
Not like Kylo Ren.

  
Fury boiled in his veins. Blood that had run cold as he reflected was ignited; flaring to life and causing his body to thrum with a new beginning. Anger. Rage. Wrath. Emotions curling into a ball of flame that settled in his chest. Kylo Ren had lived. Kylo Ren, who had been bested by a novice girl that he had dragged upon his—no, Hux’s, own ship, had lived. His actions, which had cost the lives of many Troopers, and millions (possibly billions) of credits worth of loss to the First Order, was alive and in a bacta tank, being treated like royalty because Supreme Leader Snoke wanted his pet alive. He wanted him alive and to be trained. To be groomed into the perfect toy for Snoke. That’s all he was. A toy. A toy to be tossed around from owner to owner until he was chewed up, used, and thrown to the side.

  
 _Just like you._ A voice, taking close kinship to his father’s, dotted into his thoughts. He blinked and the reflection in the mirror followed suit. It blinked back. Mocking him. When he frowned, it also frowned. When he tried to stand tall, like he had been trained to do since he was young, the reflection showed all the imperfections with his uniform. Tears. Stains. Patches missing. Everything was so wrong. Everything.

  
 _Everything you’ve done is wrong._ The voice snapped him back to his reflection. No, his father’s reflection. The stiff, thick man standing there with a snarl and disappointment in his eyes couldn’t have been him. _When have you done anything right?_

  
“I killed you.” Hux said out loud. The first time in a long time of admitting the truth out loud. It wasn’t as relieving as he had hoped. It just made the reflection look harder.

  
 _Sloppily. You were found out so quickly. Sloppy._ His father snapped.

  
“Shut up.” Hux hissed. He wouldn’t be talked to like this. Not again. Not ever again. But his father didn’t listen. He snarled and hissed right back. “Shut up.” They both said, and Hux stepped closer. “Shut up!”

  
The mirror shattered easily.

  
One hit was all it took. The glass and his father gave way and collapsed around him in chunks. Sharp, jagged chunks. He stared. He breathed. He huffed. Then he dropped to his knees, ignoring the crunch of the glass beneath the pressure, and pressed a hand to the shards. He needing something. Anything. He needed guidance in that moment. Even if it was from his father, he needed something. Anything.

  
“Come back.” He demanded. He didn’t plead. He demanded his father come back and fix the mess of a man he had created. He demanded his mother rise from the dead and take the life she had given him. He wished—

  
The glass cut through his glove and flesh easy and the prickles of pain didn’t register so much as the relief that burned in the base of his palm. It didn’t hurt. Not like he had expected it to. It pricked like a needle. The blood came then and he blinked. The blood dripped slowly. Then it stopped. Only when the pain faded to a near numbness, did Hux move the glass from hand to the other and pull of his glove. The cut wasn’t deep. It wouldn’t cause any damage past an annoying sting whenever he grabbed anything.

  
It was perfect.

  
He slid against the wall, shoulder and side digging into it. The glass pressed against him more. It almost cut through. Almost. He didn’t need almost. He needed it to cut through. But it wouldn’t unless he made it. So, he did. He tore half of his great coat from himself, fought until he could pull his shirt up at least over a shoulder, and brought the glass to his shoulder and dug. The pain flared and went in a brief moment. A hiss of air between clenched teeth and it was over. Warmth followed. Warmth and relief as blood bubbled to the top of the wound and spilt over. It dribbled along pale flesh and freckles and decorated streams along his side. Dripping. Dripping. Dropping. Until the drops reached his ribs and turned cold and the relief faded back into a numbness that Hux was starting to hate. He dug again. This time he didn’t make a noise. He just closed his eyes and embraced the warmth. It was what he needed. Here, in his chambers, where there were no failed bases or Kylo Ren or Supreme Leader, there was nothing.

  
 _You could be nothing_. His father—no, not his father. That wasn’t his father in the bloody chunk of glass he clutched. That was him. That was him with tears in his eyes and blood splattering across him like a frustrated painter’s masterpiece. That was him. _You could be nothing._ He thought and he could. He could fade into the galaxy around him. He could join his failed Starkiller and float as loose bits through space. It was a lost cause anyways. The Resistance had Luke Skywalker, he was sure of it. They had the map. They had everything. He had nothing. He was nothing. He deserved to be nothing. It didn’t hurt. He had a brief spike of anxious worry that this would hurt worse than his shoulder. But he was wrong. His wrist didn’t hurt. His only noise was a sigh of relief as more warmth painted his arm and his hip. He turned his arm over and covered himself in his own blood, watching as his own ruin was painted by his own touch. This wasn’t stopping. Not like the others that faded to a numbness.

  
_I am nothing._ He mused. He was nothing. He had always been nothing since his birth. He was destined to die as nothing. _I am nothing._


End file.
